The Tortured Mind of Gisborne
by KerryVeritas
Summary: As Gisborne and Vaysey ride out of Acre, Gisborne has to face what he's just done. Was it a dream? Was it a memory? Takes place at the end of the Series 2 Finale, high spoiler content.


**SPOILER WARNING: This story picks up at the very end of the SERIES 2 FINALE of Robin Hood, so the spoilers are immediate! Consider yourself warned!!**

**I am a Robin/Marian fan at heart but Gisborne is my favorite character, and as such, I feel his actions in the finale were completely justified. I appear to be in the minority, in that I was pleased and happy with the dramatic series 2 finale, so this is not a rewriting, but rather an extending, of the finale. **

**This is my attempt to rectify the loose ends of Series 2 without doing something as ridiculous as bringing a dead person back. It's a look into Guy's confusing thoughts during and after the murder, how he would cope, and how the other characters (Allan and Robin, mainly) figure into it.**

* * *

**The Tortured Mind of Gisborne**

Gisborne clutched the sheriff as if he were the only tangible escape from the nightmare into which he'd sunk. They struck out of Acre, the desolate houses and bleak, sandy horizon blurring as if edges of a dream. Vaysey continued to scream fruitless threats and curses at the outlaw Robin Hood, who, Gisborne realized blithely, was probably crying over the woman's dying body. Possibly whispering last oaths of revenge and love. Maybe even exchanging those nuptials she'd spat into Gisborne's face, laughing like a demented angel.

Vaysey continued to scream even as Acre faded into nothing behind them, seemingly not noticing Gisborne behind him, clutching his waist as their horse, their only means of escape, galloped toward the endless horizon. Gisborne took solace in Vaysey's ignorance. Soon enough, he would remember Gisborne's presence, and the screaming would turn toward him. Or worse; Vaysey would congratulate Gisborne for conquering the shrew.

Gisborne stared numbly at the spot where beige sand met blue sky. It was all he could do not to slouch forward and succumb to tears on Vaysey's shoulder. Part of him felt like slouching off the horse entirely, letting his body fall limply to the sand, and watching Vaysey charge away, back to England, back to Nottingham… back to hell.

But he didn't. Scream and rage as he might, Vaysey could not place the blame of the botched assassination on Gisborne. Vaysey had taken the shot, Vaysey should have finished the job – it wasn't Gisborne's fault he'd been stymied by Aphrodite herself. If Vaysey hadn't been so intent on killing the blond boy who had betrayed him… Gisborne had been convinced that Vaysey had a soft spot for Carter's raw power, the same way Vaysey seemed attracted to Robin Hood himself. If Vaysey hadn't taken the time to conquer his own demon, perhaps the king would be dead. She wouldn't have thrown herself in Gisborne's path…

He saw her face in his mind; laughing at him, her face lit with glee, beautiful and alluring, yet so terrible, clothed in white, surrounded by the stark white landscape, giving the illusion that she was some angel sent to him from heaven. An angel to torment him.

"Gisborne! Gisborne!" the sheriff thrashed around in front of him, and Gisborne loosened his grip involuntarily, almost falling off the horse. "We're going back to port – we must alert Prince John!"

With startling clarity, Gisborne realized that the sheriff thought the King lay dying in the street in Acre. He hadn't seen him the way Gisborne had – hadn't realized the wound was not fatal, that it would be nothing more than another scar from the Holy Land; a scar much like that on the side of Robin Hood.

Gisborne was content with clouding his mind with a strategy, rather than dwelling on his private nightmare. Was it a nightmare? A dream? Surely it hadn't happened. Gisborne pushed it from his mind as he contemplated what to say to the sheriff. Should he tell him the king would likely survive? It would elicit Vaysey's rage, and was Gisborne ready to handle a tantrum? On the other hand, if Gisborne silently stood by and let Vaysey run amok, announcing that he'd killed the king and putting Prince John on the throne, then when the king returned, healthy and whole, to England… Gisborne would have power.

Power. It was all he wanted two years ago: power, and a pretty little wife to complete the picture of perfection. Nothing in his past or ancestry would matter if he was the proper Lord of Locksley, and with some sons as descendants, he would have been the patriarch of a growing family. Guy of Gisborne, Lord of Locksley Manor. As long as he had land, he was convinced he could have been happy.

He'd chosen her because of her beauty. She was alluring, able to draw tender affections from all of the men of Nottingham, beginning with her father and ending, with his final betrayal, with Allan-a-Dale. The only man impervious to her charms was the sheriff himself, and Gisborne had his suspicions as to why. Had Gisborne chosen someone else to court, perhaps he would have only seen her as a pretty, albeit headstrong, daughter of the former sheriff. Had he not made advances toward possessing her, he would never have gotten to know her strength or inner beauty, her unflinching desire to help the sick and needy. The sheriff scornfully referred to it as her "bleeding heart," but Gisborne found himself desperately wishing he was one of the many for whom her heart bled. He wanted to be cared for by her. He didn't know when it happened; it was all gradual, but he was nearly obsessed with her strength and piercing gaze when he had asked for her hand. He'd been foolish enough to believe he, Guy of Gisborne, could possess something so beautiful, so rare… so unearthly.

But that was before he'd realized she wasn't something to possess. She was someone to love, and someone to love him back. After burning her house down, he found himself relieved that she was back under the watchful eye of the soldiers of Nottingham. He'd always had his suspicions of Robin Hood, and even in those dark days after she'd left him at the altar, when he told himself he hated her, he'd wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, in Robin's house, in Robin's bed, haunted by blurry visions of her cavorting about with the outlaw.

He'd seen her anxious and tender affections for her father, and had been drawn to it. He'd protected her father to the best of his abilities, yet when Edward had died, she'd still blamed him – pushed him away – escaped in secrets and lies to a convent, where she claimed to want to be alone. He knew the truth – she needed to be away from him. Perhaps he'd scared her, or pushed her too hard, but he'd seen her expressions in instants where she'd forgotten to mask her emotions – he'd seen revulsion.

But still he coveted her love, no longer her body or her desire, but her love. He wanted her respect, her tender compassion, her allegiance with him, in sickness and in health. He protected her from the sheriff more than once, with Allan's help. He'd vaguely suspected that Allan was taken with her himself, had thought he'd seen it in Allan's understanding smiles, but now he knew… Allan knew she was betrothed to Robin Hood.

No. It was a dream – a nightmare. It hadn't happened, she wasn't engaged to Robin Hood. Any minute now, Gisborne would be free from his mind's torment, he would wake again in Locksley Manor and chastise himself for his foolishness.

He focused again on the problem at hand. What to tell the sheriff? They were nearing the coast, Gisborne could see the ship on the blue sea, but it was not the route to power and contentment that it had been the last time he'd left the Holy Land. Last time, he'd had nothing to expect, no void to fill… only an empty canvas on which to paint his newfound success. It was before he'd known love… known pain.

They dismounted the horse and ran for the ship. It seemed like overkill to Gisborne. Not only were Robin and his men nowhere to be seen, but they were presumably still crouched over her dying or dead body, or at the very least, tending to the wounded king. Still, it seemed pointless to dawdle, and Gisborne followed Vaysey in short, erratic strides, unused to Vaysey's short-legged pace. They stumbled onto the ship, Vaysey screaming at the crew to depart, and Gisborne was surrounded by scurrying men muttering in foreign languages. He staggered to the side of the ship and gazed down at the water below, remembering the last time he'd looked up at the mast… when she had been by his side. Before he knew it, he was violently sick, but the retching and splashes were lost in the commotion of the departing ship.

He found his bunk, where he'd slept only a few days ago, listening to her moaning and muttering in the cabin next to him, wishing he could free her from her binds so that he could see that look of earnest gratitude she'd perfected over the past two years. He felt sickened with himself. How could he have been so taken with her? How could he not see?...

Hot tears trickled down his cheeks, dripped off his overlarge nose, one of his imperfections; early on, before he'd really known her, he'd wondered if his looks had repulsed her – if his height, unruly dark hair, ever-present stubble, or his nose had made her scorn his advances. He'd been silly to wonder; once he'd spoken to her properly, he'd realized that she always looked him straight in the eye. She looked everyone straight in the eye, searching for what she wanted to see – the good in people. She'd found the good in him, the good that he hadn't known existed, and his small imperfections faded away. He'd felt handsome, manly, under her watchful eyes.

He collapsed onto the hard bed, only made soft by a leather jacket he'd used as a pillow. He pressed his cheek against the wall, felt the grain of the wood even through his five-day-old stubble, and let the tears fall. He made no sound of anguish, just cried silently, until he heard movement at the doorway.

Vaysey stood there, imposing even for his small stature, silhouetted in the doorway. His hands were behind his back in his sick parody of gloating power, and Gisborne found himself resenting the sheriff as he slowly approached the bed.

"Can you feel the hot metal of the knife twisting in your back?" Vaysey said softly, his voice barely a growl. Gisborne remembered the speech, given at the door of a jail cell… a cell which was holding the brother of Allan-a-Dale, marked for death. Gisborne felt another stab of humiliation – how could he believe Allan would be on his side? The brother, the pickpocket… the necklace…

"All the time she was smiling at you, but really… she was laughing at you," Vaysey continued, sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling sardonically at Gisborne, who hadn't budged from his fetal curl against the wall. "Betraying you. Despising you. Humiliating you."

In that moment, Gisborne hated Vaysey more than he'd ever hated anyone, even Robin Hood. How on earth did the man always remember what he'd said verbatim? He was a complete, power-hungry sociopath.

"I was right, Gisborne. Women… lepers. The lot of them. Am I surprised? A clue –"

"Shut up," Gisborne growled, speaking for the first time. His voice was choked with his tears, and Vaysey seemed to draw more power from his signs of weakness.

"What did she say to you, Gisborne?" he cooed, moving closer in a pseudo-seductive way. "Did she taunt you? Torment you? Did she… laugh?"

Gisborne could hear the laughter in the sheriff's voice… or was it her laughter? He couldn't keep it straight. She'd laughed maniacally, but he'd only dreamt that, right?

"You've failed, Gisborne," the sheriff said, moving even closer, causing Gisborne to curl up even tighter, feeling like the five-year-old child he once was, hiding from his abusive, drunken father. "You thought of betraying me after the harpy promised to fulfill your carnal desires. You sought to kill me –"

"I didn't."

"Oh, you did," Vaysey said sanctimoniously. "And she distracted you, keeping you from killing the king as we'd set out to do."

"You shot him," Gisborne said, still curled against the wall. "You should have finished."

"You're saying I can't depend on you," the sheriff said conclusively.

"I'm saying you were obsessed with blondy, the boy you raved about for months," Gisborne spat. "You were more intent on killing him than the king."

Vaysey's face broke into his crooked-toothed smile. "Jealous, Gisborne?" he taunted softly.

Gisborne clenched with revulsion. Is this what she had felt toward him? Surely not…

"Lucky for both of us, my shot is as good as Robin Hood's himself." Gisborne kept his eyes trained on a spot on the wall, hating Vaysey. "We can conclusively tell the prince that the black knights have prevailed. Now that the leper and her father are both gone, Nottingham can be handled freely."

Gisborne laughed mirthlessly. He couldn't help himself.

"Something funny, Gisborne? Something funnier, perhaps, than a grown man crying like a little girl?"

"You honestly think Robin Hood will no longer be a threat?"

Vaysey smiled. "Why, that's a good question, Gisborne. I was hoping you'd ask – you see, since you wielded the sword that killed his girlfriend –"

"No!" Gisborne cried out violently.

"-you're the one he's coming after. As far as I can tell, Robin Hood is no longer my problem."

"I didn't kill her!" Gisborne said to the wall, breathing deeply as if he could smell her scent through the wood.

The sheriff was gone. Gisborne didn't know he'd left, and glancing around the cabin, he wondered if he'd imagined his presence in the first place. He couldn't keep it all straight – what was dream, and what was reality?

The cabin was darkening, and red chinks of sunlight shone through the room, making Gisborne feel like he was imprisoned in his own private hell. He peeled off his gloves slowly, ignoring the dried red spots on the palms as if pretending they didn't exist meant none of it actually happened. He peeled off his jacket next, which also had those strange red spots, and balled it up as small as possible. It stank. It smelled of his sweat mixed with leather, a smell he used to associate with his manly power, but which he now recognized as a narcissistic tendency to comfort his tender ego. He hated the leather. He'd worn it in Acre, in the desert, and had nearly cooked himself in the hot sun.

He was now down to his leather pants and long-sleeved shirt, and for the first time, he felt properly cooled off. Picking up the jacket and gloves, he pushed them through the largest crack on the side of the ship, and heard the satisfying splash of them hitting the water. He grabbed his spare jacket – the one which had been his pillow – and stuffed it through as well.

In a numb sense of disbelief, he left his cabin and instead opened the door to hers. He closed it quietly behind him and felt a strange pang at how much more feminine it was than the one he'd left. She'd somehow found some sacks, which she'd stuffed with soft items to make a pillow for herself. It was also clear that she'd spent her loads of downtime cleaning the room, perhaps to keep her mind engaged, or maybe because she really couldn't stand the dirt and salt of the sea. The ropes which had bound her to the bed at night were still attached to the metal ring in the wall. During the day, they'd keep the door locked and her hands bound, but more than once, Gisborne had come in to find her bindings loose – had never told the sheriff, because he wanted her to be as free as possible…

Pausing only to peel off his shirt, he crawled into her bed and resumed his fetal position, dropping the shirt to the floor as he felt the scratchy texture of the sacks against his side. He wanted to feel what she'd felt – he wanted to be as close to her as possible, to feel her presence, but the cabin was bare to him, as bare as his back and chest, as they had been the first time he'd read attraction in her gaze…

She was advancing, her expression scared, curious, and a little lustful as she took in his bare chest and arms. He was unprepared for her sudden presence at Locksley, but was going to take advantage of the opportunity to show her what she'd missed by leaving him at the altar. He walked toward her, moving his hips slowly with his power, holding his chin high and his fists clenched, to better define his muscles. He wanted her to see this side to him – the intimate, seductive side, so that she would know what she'd lost. And she knew – he'd seen it in her eyes, had heard it in her apologies and pleas to be friends again. She held out her hand, inches from his chest; he took it in his bare hand, the only time he'd touched her without a leather barricade. He wanted to kiss her, to lean forward and take her in his arms, to feel her hair and face against his bare chest –

_"I thought you were a better man.__"_

She was the beautiful angel again. Terrible beauty, power which far surpassed his, emanated from her in an ethereal glow, and he was helpless as she gazed at him disdainfully. _"Now I realize I must content myself with disappointment."_

He jerked awake, in a cold sweat, to see fresh morning sunlight streaming in through the cracks of her room. He was bathed in her scent, left behind from the months she'd spent on this very bed, captured and cornered, miserable, protected by Guy more than she knew from leering crew members.

He rolled toward the side of the bed and his head hit something hard in her pillow. He sat up and took the sack in his hands, realizing tardily that it was the rucksack Allan had packed himself. Had he given it to her before rejoining the outlaws? Had he left it behind, and she'd only taken it as a means of carrying her stuff? Had she stolen it from Allan? Any of the concepts were dizzying to Guy, because they all meant betrayal by one or both of the people he had come to consider friends.

Some of it was still Allan's stuff. It was his black clothes he'd worn when under Gisborne's command. Gisborne guessed he'd taken his outlaw clothes on the trip knowing he would change allegiances, but the white-hot anger that should have followed that revelation never came. In a way, Gisborne respected Allan. He'd come to regard him as an overeager kid brother, but Allan had duped them all. He managed to defy the sheriff in a way Gisborne had never been able to.

The next item was all too familiar to Gisborne. It was a necklace he'd given to her a year and a half ago, a necklace which had ruptured his trust in her, marked her for death by the sheriff, and resulted in Gisborne's engagement to her, all in one day. He remembered standing in her bedchamber, a place he'd only ever visited in his wildest dreams, and remembered how she looked scared and defiant all at once, her short hair in disarray.

_"The only reason you paid me any attention was to feed information to my enemy."_

_"That's not true."_

Was it true? Was she betrothed to Robin Hood? If so… what was the purpose of carrying this necklace with her? Was it because he'd given it to her? Did she actually treasure a gift of his, or was it something else? Was it blackmail of some sort, a way to remind him of the ordeals they'd gone through, the promises he'd made? There was no way of knowing.

The last item was a ring. It was large, green, and ugly, much too ostentatious for her. Someone must have given it to her – someone who wanted it to be seen.

_"I'm going to marry Robin Hood. I love Robin Hood." _

No.

Gisborne chucked the ring at the opposite wall as hard as he could, but predictably, like anything distasteful in his life, it came hurtling back to him, landing at his feet. He grabbed it up and stuffed it through a crack, but he never heard the sound of it hitting the water – despite its large, gaudy size, it wasn't big enough to make a substantial sound.

* * *

The trip back to civilization, as Vaysey derisively called it, took two months. They got lost in storms twice and landed on the coast of Greece on accident, delaying their trip. Vaysey wanted to port in Lombardy and travel through France back to England, claiming travel by land would be faster than by sea. Gisborne couldn't bring himself to care. He'd lost a lot of weight due to chronic seasickness and, he suspected, depression. The last two months had been hell for him; he hadn't been able to figure out whether the horrors he kept revisiting in his nightmares had actually happened. He wondered if he was going crazy, but he was so sick and anxious to get off the boat that those thoughts rarely went further than a fleeting wonder. 

They ported in Lombardy and took refuge in a roadside inn. He was forced to share a room with Vaysey, but he was so relieved to be in a bed which didn't rock with a ship that he collapsed there in mid-afternoon and sank into a blissfully dreamless sleep, pausing again only to remove his shirt.

He woke to a nightmare – Vaysey was leering over him with a slightly plump girl who looked to be no older than sixteen. He was clutching her upper arm so tightly that she was wincing in pain, and she looked at Gisborne with such fear that he instantly knew why the sheriff had brought her.

"Look here, Gisborne, a little wench to allay your frustrations. And look at her," he stroked her blonde curly hair from her sweaty face, and she visibly shuddered at his touch, squeezing her eyes shut. "She looks nothing like your leper."

"My Lord -"

"I paid her father dearly for her services, despite his arguments, Gisborne. I expect to get what I pay for. Am I going to get an argument from you?"

Gisborne swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat as soon as he'd realized what was going on. "Of course not." Fighting to place his trademark sneer on his face, he grabbed the girl by her other arm and yanked her down onto the bed next to him, causing her to whimper.

"Good, good," Vaysey said, smiling as he usually did when all of his ducks were in a row. "I have business in town tonight, I shall be back around mid-morning and we'll continue on. I expect," he said warningly, "to find you a changed man, Gisborne."

Gisborne ignored him, pretending to be riveted by the young girl, who was now crying and avoiding his gaze.

"Good. This is good," Vaysey murmured to himself as he strode out of the room, shutting the door behind him. When the metal ring clanged against the wood, the girl jumped, as if the sound would begin her torture and humiliation.

Gisborne put a finger to his mouth to silence her, still unused to having bare hands. She gazed at him, stunned, but fell silent, her whimpering fading away. He rose slowly and walked barefooted and soundlessly to the door, listening for sounds of Vaysey hovering outside the door. Too many times, Gisborne hadn't checked, but this time, he wouldn't get caught.

He stayed there for five minutes and finally determined that Vaysey had left. He turned back to the girl, who seemed to shrink under his gaze, her brown eyes wide in her tear-streaked face. He pointed to the sheriff's bed, indicating that she needed to sit there, and she obeyed with fresh tears. She sat facing him, not meeting his eyes, as he sat down across from her. She only stopped crying once she realized what he was doing – he was pulling his shirt back on.

"Speak English?" he asked. She nodded. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen." Her accent was heavy but not hard to understand.

"Your father. He's poor?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will he punish you for what happens tonight?"

She started crying again. "No. He will be ashamed."

Gisborne shook his head. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She cried harder.

"If you keep up this incessant crying, you'll be given to someone else," Guy snapped. "You heard the sheriff – he wants his money's worth, and if he figures out that I'm not having you tonight, he'll give you to someone who will."

She abruptly stopped and gazed at him in shock. "You… you're not…"

"I'm going back to sleep," Gisborne said flatly. "You must stay here through the night, but stay on that bed, and don't fall asleep. In the morning, your father will be ashamed, but you must wait a day before telling him the truth, or you risk the sheriff finding out."

"My father won't believe me."

"I'll leave you with a note."

She looked at him in disbelief.

"I promise."

Slowly, she nodded her agreement. Gisborne nodded back before extinguishing the candle Vaysey had left and collapsed on his stomach, facing the girl, who had curled up in a ball, sitting against the headboard of the opposite bed. He could still hear her breathing anxiously, and after a while, he realized it was keeping him from getting back to sleep.

"You don't need to worry – I said I wouldn't hurt you."

"I don't like the night."

Gisborne snorted. "No one likes the night."

She glanced at him sideways without turning her head. "He… your Lord… he said you were a monster."

Gisborne gazed at her, all innocent curls and dimples, and felt a terrible, gaping sense of shame. "I am a monster."

_"Guy! I've caught the __Nightwatchman__!"_

Her blue eyes stood out prominently through the mask – how could he have not seen it before? Her bleeding heart was bigger than he'd thought, and even though he felt betrayed and duped, he loved her even more for her courage and determination to do what was right. He felt her attempts were a little misguided, but it was something easily remedied. They'd reached an agreement. For the first time, he felt like he was her intimate friend, like he'd somehow gotten through her defenses.

Then she'd tried to kill the sheriff.

_"I recently found out… that she was the __Nightwatchman__…"_

Her eyes questioned him – _Why did you betray me?_

Gisborne didn't betray her. There was no other way out, she was caught and sentenced to death, Guy had just spat out whatever had popped in his head. She had betrayed him first – why couldn't she leave well enough alone?

"Ooh, she's good. Look at her…" The sheriff was laughing as she made her innocent, pleading face. Guy stared, but she transformed into the angel again, the angel who haunted his dreams and memories, the angel of death –

"NO!"

He shot up in bed, his black shirt sticking to his chest, drenched with sweat. He clawed at it, feeling suffocated, and clumsily peeled it off, tossing it aimlessly and hearing it land partially in the water basin in the corner. His pants – no longer leather, as he'd found a proper pair on the ship during their trip – were drenched, too, but weren't as binding as his shirt. For some reason, he couldn't stand feeling like his arms were bound.

He ran his hands through his hair and prayed for release from his nightmare. Only when he spun to get out of bed did he remember the girl.

She was under the covers of her bed, her back pressed against the wall as she clutched the moth-eaten fabric to her chin. She was visibly trembling, her curls bouncing, and her eyes were wide and terrified in her face.

"I told you not to be frightened," he said harshly.

She didn't answer, only flinched at the sound of his voice. He sighed in resignation and frustration and marched over to the basin, where he proceeded to make a holy mess as he doused his face, hair, neck, arms, and torso with water. When he was done, he turned back to face her, but she hadn't moved – she'd been watching him the whole time.

He walked back to his own rucksack, which he'd stowed under his bed, and she shrank into the corner. He suddenly realized that she was scared of his nakedness, and he had the presence of mind to blush. The thought that she might be made uncomfortable when faced with a half-nude male body hadn't even occurred to him. He hastily pulled out a blessedly dry shirt and yanked it on. He sat down on the bed again, facing her, and watched as she slowly relaxed.

"I scared you?"

She nodded. "You muttered and thrashed in your sleep."

He went still. "What did I mutter?"

She looked scared again. She looked as if she wasn't going to answer, but after staring at Gisborne for nearly a full minute, she finally said, "You said 'betrayal' and 'betrayed' a lot. And…"

Gisborne stared at her. "And?"

"And you said…" the girl swallowed. " 'I'll do this thing. We'll be together.' "

"You're lying," Gisborne said automatically.

She shook her head vigorously, her curls bouncing with her.

Stunned, Gisborne sat back. He didn't remember dreaming that, yet the girl knew what he'd said that day. Did he dream about it every night, whether he remembered it or not? Or was it in his mind and on his lips because it was not a dream… but a memory?

"My Lord," the girl said quietly. "It's nearly daybreak."

Gisborne glanced absently outside, where the first light of dawn lit the sky. "Right."

He quickly scribbled a note to the girl's father, explaining his situation as clearly as possible without giving it all away, dating it and signing his name to the bottom. Once the ink was dry, he enclosed a couple of coins, noting that it was for the pain he'd caused the father, and sealed the note with the last of the candle wax just as the sun started peeking through the trees.

"Here," he said, giving her the note. "Remember, you are not to tell your father until tomorrow, or the sheriff could find out and come back for you. And you need to act like…" he trailed off awkwardly, but she nodded vigorously again. He found himself watching her curls bounce and realized that it was hypnotizing. He was suddenly proud of himself for protecting this girl – she would no doubt enchant some man who wouldn't have been able to cope with her violation.

"Right. Are you ready?"

"Yes." She stared up at him, seeming to recognize him for the first time. "And… I don't think you're a monster."

"You don't know me," he said abruptly.

"I do," she said quietly. "She said no, didn't she? The girl in your dream?"

"She was a Lady," Guy said thickly, feeling ashamed of his moment of pride only seconds ago. "And I'm not sure it was a dream."

"She _was_ a Lady?" the girl repeated.

"I told you already," Guy said harshly, gripping the metal ring on the door. "I'm a monster."

* * *

Traveling through France was much like the first night in Lombardy – Guy slept as much as possible, pretending he'd gotten his fill from the blonde girl, and the sheriff seemed to take it hook, line, and sinker. Gisborne was no longer faced with protecting young girls. Vaysey was positively lighthearted, believing the king to be dead, and Gisborne was content to let him keep on believing it. 

They got to the north of France without much of consequence. They had only a short boat trip over to England and then the travel from Portsmouth to Nottingham.

Gisborne's thoughts began turning to Robin Hood. Where was he? Was he tailing them, biding his time, or was his departure from the Holy Land delayed enough that they hadn't caught up? Had he stayed behind to bury… the king? Surely they buried Carter, but how many other corpses were there? Gisborne kept pushing those thoughts from his mind, not wanting to contemplate the idea that there could be _three_ corpses to bury and mourn…

They boarded a boat and Gisborne settled himself in a corner out of the way. The trip would only take a few hours, but Gisborne wanted to be away from the sheriff.

He began feeling seasick again, and his thoughts strayed to Nottingham and Locksley, and what awaited him there. Nothing. A crushing sense of guilt threatened to overcome him, but he pushed it away. He remembered the last time he'd thought he'd never see her again, when she'd escaped Nottingham Castle and gone to a convent. He'd thought he'd scared her with his advances, his vows of protection, and he'd tortured himself over his hasty words. If he'd given her some space…

He remembered those desolate nights he'd spent at Locksley Manor, missing her so much he couldn't sleep, his desire so thick he would moan in pain, convinced he would never see her again. The day she'd turned up… she'd gazed at him across Robin Hood's seemingly dead body… and he'd whisked her off to a private chamber, to talk, only talking was the last thing on his mind. He'd stared at her, feeling nothing but deep love, startling gratefulness that she'd returned, and the insane desire to grab her and tell her exactly what had gone through his mind during those desperate nights. They'd argued, as she liked to do, but just as they were leaving, she grabbed him and kissed him, a deep, hearty kiss as he'd never imagined… a kiss which enabled him to survive the subsequent lonely nights until she was back at the castle again…

_"So it's true… you tried to kill the king."_

_"What? Do you feel betrayed?"_

Gisborne jerked awake, the carriage tilting and rocking as it navigated the bumpy English roads. They'd arrived in Portsmouth and found the carriage waiting, and Gisborne had quickly fallen asleep, exhausted from the seasickness of the boat trip. He could see her face in his mind's eye – she did feel betrayed, and it wrenched his heart just remembering. At the time he'd felt savage satisfaction at that exchange, and afterwards, it had faded from his mind in the wake of other conversations.

That was the dagger. She'd felt it like a knife wound. He'd forgotten her expression of relief, just before their wedding ceremony, when he'd assured her he hadn't gone to the Holy Land. He'd always thought that she hadn't believed him – that she was just going along with him because she had no proof he was lying. It now occurred to him, remembering her expression, that she had believed him. She'd believed all along that Guy had been sick, that he hadn't gone. When she'd asked in surprise, "You went to the Holy Land?" he'd thought it was just another act of hers. He'd stuck in the dagger with his silent omission, and when she'd asked again, he'd twisted the dagger by sneering at her.

Was that when she'd turned on him?

It had turned cold in England. They had arrived at the beginning of autumn, and as the carriage pitched and swayed, Gisborne remembered happier autumns.

He was sure now. She had grown to love him, and he'd broken her heart with the confirmation that he'd gone to kill her precious king. He had seen it on her face- she'd believed he'd changed, but he'd broken the last shred of trust she'd had in him.

He understood now. _"I would rather die than __be with__ you, Guy of Gisborne."_ Her words had hurt, but how much had it hurt her to say them? She was disheartened, believing she didn't know the man she loved – but she did know him. Gisborne had changed for her, the man he was that day in Acre was a completely different man from the one who had come back from the Holy Land the first time. He'd loved her, he wanted to be her husband, and he was willing to betray the sheriff and Prince John, perhaps losing his only bid at any real power, just to keep her by his side. When he'd watched her during the trip, all he could think of was how _she_ had betrayed _him_ – but what had she been thinking? Did she love him after all, even with her dying breath? Was she angry and spiteful with herself for not being able to save him from himself? Had she run to Robin Hood's waiting arms just to shield herself from the pain of losing Guy?

Broken images were flashing through his mind – her expression that late night at Locksley Manor; the way she refused to leave his side when Nottingham was under siege; her pleas to save her from her bindings in the tree; her tears and anguish over her father's death; her tender hug after he'd saved her from a hanging.

He couldn't decide – were all of these moments connected in her attempt to save her own hide? Since he'd promised to protect her father, he'd noted marked changes in her attitude toward him. When he'd proposed to her the second time, he was convinced that she loved him. Then he found out her betrayal as the Nightwatchman, and she found out his about his trip to the Holy Land. They'd been on even footing – but they were both so angry and resentful that they'd lashed out.

It was her bleeding heart that had killed her after all.

"Nearly there, Gisborne," said Vaysey in a singsong voice, jerking Guy from his reverie. It seemed strange – Gisborne's entire world had been shifted by his latest revelation, yet Vaysey hadn't even noticed.

Guy stared at the sheriff. He hated him more than anyone else, even after their long trip together. He did nothing but make Nottingham and England miserable. The poor were getting poorer, the sick were getting sicker… and her good deeds were going to go unnoticed. She'd died in some remote part of the world, to be buried away from her father and family –

And Guy had done it. He'd killed her. It wasn't a dream, or a nightmare, or a vision – it was a memory. That face haunting him in his sleep was real – he'd stabbed her in the stomach, watched her face contort in pain, but did it as if detached from the entire scene.

It was all he could do not to lean forward and vomit. It was like a buried memory he couldn't retrieve until just the right moment, but he now knew he'd killed her. In a fit of fury and pain, he'd involuntarily reacted.

He had to master himself. He had to avenge her death, because despite the fact that he'd wielded the sword, the real murderer amongst them was Vaysey. How many times had Vaysey left Gisborne for dead? One of those times, it was she who had saved his life. How many innocent men – Lambert, Carter – had died just because Vaysey wanted it so? It had pained her every time she'd seen Gisborne embroiled in murders and deceit. It had been thoughts of her reaction that stayed his hand when Vaysey had ordered Gisborne to kill three children. She'd softened him, yes, but not into a sorry sod – into a man capable of love, devotion, compassion, and power. He'd been seeking power the wrong way – she'd shown him the way, and in the wake of her death, he needed to prove himself as a good man. If he didn't, he might never be worthy of her love after death.

Slowly, his breath returned to normal, and his stomach settled down. Vaysey was still humming absently, didn't suspect a thing, but a plan was forming in Gisborne's mind…

They arrived at Nottingham just before sunset the next day. Gisborne felt empty and alone as they approached the front gate of Nottingham Castle. The doors were opened, and the carriage entered.

The street was utterly deserted.

"Where is everyone?" Vaysey asked, instantly agitated. "Where are they? Where have they gone?"

"I don't know, my Lord," Gisborne intoned.

Vaysey leapt from the carriage, enraged, and was three steps away when a shout echoed through the empty streets.

"Oi! What took you so long to get back, Sheriff?!"

Gisborne froze.

"Robin Hood!" Vaysey raged. "Where are my soldiers? The people?"

"They're gone!" Robin shouted, and Guy heard the laughter in his voice. "They were evacuated yesterday, when they heard an army was going to raze Nottingham to the ground!"

"No!" Vaysey shouted, and Guy could see through the crack in the hangings that he was spinning around on the spot, as if looking for some straggler.

"There's no one here but me, Sheriff!" Robin sang out, sounding demented. "Where's your murdering understudy, then? In the carriage?"

"Gisborne was dealt with in France!" the sheriff raged, sounding convincing. "I had no further use for him in his grief!"

Gisborne smiled crookedly. The sheriff was covering for him so that they had the element of surprise. If only the sheriff knew what Gisborne was planning.

"His _grief_!" Robin said, disbelief evident in his voice. Guy guessed he was atop one of the walls, his arrow trained on the sheriff as he kept moving around. "I would think a man with no heart would be incapable of such an emotion!"

"You were wrong, weren't you?" the sheriff spat, still spinning around erratically. "He turned into a whiny, moping mess! Your Lady had some strong hold on him – are you sure she was yours?"

"You've failed, Vaysey!" Robin bellowed, much to Guy's relief. He crouched down low in the carriage, retrieving his dagger from his pack and grabbing his sword. "The king's wound was not fatal – he survived and fully recovered before we left!"

Gisborne smiled to himself as he listened to Vaysey rage and storm outside the carriage, all the while crouched at the ready, waiting for the opportune moment.

"You failed, and your people are gone!" Robin's voice was closer – any second now. Gisborne clutched the shield the sheriff had left on the seat in front of him, poised, waiting.

"What are you going to do now?" Robin taunted softly, and Vaysey had become still, trembling with rage. "No one to rule – no one to bully or kill."

"Where is your gang, then?" Vaysey asked.

"They are in Locksley, and at Bonham Church," Robin said, finally emerging from behind a pillar, his arrow trained on the sheriff. "I came here to kill you and your boy."

"Oh, to avenge your precious love?" Vaysey taunted. "Let me tell you something, Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon. That woman was nothing but a leper. I told Gisborne she was a cheating, sniveling little woman, but she still had him bound to her charms. How do you know, for sure, that she didn't cross you the same way she crossed him?" Vaysey laughed. "I always knew she would end like that – a self-serving little whore!"

Robin's roar of rage was drowned out by Gisborne's; before either Robin or Vaysey knew what was going on, Gisborne had leapt from the carriage, abandoning the shield but holding the sword in front of him, and as Robin drew back his arrow and took aim, Gisborne impaled Vaysey on his sword.

"Gisb…" the sheriff said in utter shock, turning to see who had stabbed him in the back. Blood was oozing from the wound, unnoticed by either.

"She was no leper," Gisborne said through clenched teeth, before turning the sword in Vaysey's back. "She was the woman I loved, and you tricked me into killing her." And with one last jab of the sword, the sheriff fell to the ground, dead, with a look of surprised still etched on his face.

Guy looked up at Robin, whose arrow was still trained on him, though his expression was unreadable. He put his hands in the air as surrender.

"I had to kill him," he said, his baritone voice echoing loudly in the deserted street.

Robin inched closer. "Why?"

Guy blinked back tears. "Because he was everything that was bad in me. And she… she was everything that was good."

"The woman you killed?" Robin spat, and Guy could see, as he got closer, that Robin was crying, too.

"Yes." Guy swallowed. "Marian. The woman I loved."

Robin grimaced, pulled the bow taut, his face tormented as he trained the arrow at Gisborne's face. Guy gazed at him, fully appreciating for the first time that for himself and the sheriff, Robin Hood had always been an enigma.

_"How many years have you been here?" _

_"Three years, four winters." _

_"And yet you still don't have the respect of the populace." _

Those were some of the first words he'd exchanged with Robin, before their relationship had completely regressed into that of enemies. Robin Hood had somehow gained respect from people who only feared or loathed Gisborne. He'd been an enigma before he'd even come back from the Holy Land. But to one person, who had meant a great deal to Guy, Robin Hood had not been an enigma at all. He was another man - an ordinary man, probably cut down to size by some of her words just as Guy had been. In that moment, gazing at him across the sheriff's dead body, with her violent death stretched between them like a gaping chasm, Guy realized just how much he and Robin Hood had in common. They'd both desired the love of a woman neither of them really knew – a woman who knew them both only too well.

"I have one more thing to tell you, Hood."

"It's Locksley to you!" Robin bellowed.

"Locksley."

Robin looked a little surprised that Gisborne had used his proper name. He lowered the arrow ever so slightly. "Go on, then."

"She never crossed you."

Robin blinked.

"I asked for her hand in marriage, and she never accepted." Each word hurt Guy to say, but he did it anyway. "She was betrothed to you, and she never broke that vow." He straightened and slowly dropped his hands as he raised his chin. "I loved her, and her death… it was a mistake. I killed the sheriff for her. And now, you can take my life, as my conscience is now clean."

Robin pulled the arrow back once more, his gaze more intent and tortured. He thought he saw Robin's back fingers twitch before –

"Stop!"

Allan came charging around a corner and placed himself in front of Guy. "Robin – stop –"

"Traitor again, Allan?" Robin asked angrily.

"No, Robin, just listen –"

"Revolting, the both of you!" Gisborne recognized the third man as the one the sheriff had once made a noble. Lord Much was his name, of Bonchurch. "You're revolting for protecting this monster – and you," he said, looking at Gisborne as if he were… revolting.

"Shut up, Much!" Robin snapped.

"Listen, Robin," Allan said. "I worked for months under Gisborne, I know him better than anyone. He's not the same as he was."

"He killed –"

"I know what he did, Robin, but look what I did because of the sheriff! He manipulated us!"

"That's no excuse –" Much started.

"Shut UP, Much!" Robin bellowed.

"Robin, I swear on my life," Allan said quietly. "He did everything he could to protect her from the sheriff. She made him into a good man – I saw it for myself."

"And why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't."

Robin swung the arrow to point at Allan, causing Gisborne and Much to start in surprise. Allan, however, never lost his cool, and slowly raised his hands. With wide eyes, he said, "Look, I'm not being funny, but I reckon… I reckon she loved him."

From the corner of his eye, Guy saw Much pull a face in distaste.

"Not the same as she loved you, mate," Allan said hastily, obviously alarmed at the shade of red on Robin's face. "But I think, if she were here -"

"She's not here, Allan, and he's the reason!" Robin said, the arrow quivering slightly.

"Right… but even so, even if she were still here… despite all that…" Allan trailed off, seeming to realize how absurd it sounded. "Anyway, I just don't think she'd want you to off him."

"So what, I let him walk free, to terrorize Nottingham just as his predecessor?" Robin asked sarcastically.

Allan shrugged mutely and glanced at Gisborne, who was shocked at Allan's solidarity. Perhaps it had been harder for Allan to choose a side than he'd thought.

"I would carry on her legacy," Guy said quietly. "I would be the new sheriff, and I would do all I could for the poor… in her name."

"It's not just the poor who need your help," Much said. "It's everyone. Everyone was made poor by you and your master."

"If you kill me," Guy said to Robin, "You would get some unknown sheriff."

Robin swung the bow back to point at Guy again. "You don't know whether I'm willing to take that chance."

"You're right. I don't. And I'm ready to die for her."

They stared each other down for what felt like an eternity, feeling mutual hatred and grudging respect. Finally, Robin lowered his bow.

"For her."

"Yes."

"I'm not going to kill you." Robin stared at him pointedly. "For her."

Guy lowered his chin.

Robin held his bow limply at his side. "You will reinstate me at Locksley Manor."

"Agreed."

"My friends will no longer be outlaws."

"Agreed."

"Much here gets Bonham Church."

Gisborne glanced at Much. "Agreed."

Robin walked toward him until they were almost nose to nose. For such a spry and light-footed person, Robin was surprisingly tall. "And you will always remember that every move you make, every law you sign, every person you imprison, is being watched. I have people working for me all over the place… remember?"

Guy nodded, swallowing. "Agreed."

Robin glanced around the streets. "Some of the inhabitants are in Nettlestone and Clum, most of them are hidden in Sherwood. We will announce you as the new sheriff as they arrive, and you will hold a memorial feast in her honor, open to the public."

"Annually," Much added.

"Agreed."

Robin gave him one last, appraising look before turning away. "Come, Much. We have work to do."

"What about me?" Allan asked, turning to walk with Robin and Much.

"Do what you want," Robin said, clapping a hand on Allan's shoulder. "You're a free man now."

Allan stopped and watched as Robin and Much rounded the corner, and then turned to Gisborne, who still stood rooted to the spot.

"You left us," Guy said flatly. "In the dead of night."

Allan nodded, walking toward him in his typical swagger.

"She asked you to."

Allan nodded again, crossing his arms. "Everything is a choice."

"What, did Robin Hood tell you that?"

"Yeah. Marian told him that all the time."

Guy fell silent, staring down at the corpse of the sheriff, whose blood was beginning to spread. "Thank you for what you said… saving my life."

"You saved mine."

They stood for a while in silence, each lost in thought, until the sun was completely set, leaving only bright red streaks across the sky. Allan was about to turn and leave when Gisborne said, "Allan."

"Yeah?"

"What you said, about her loving me…" He couldn't bring himself to look at Allan.

"She did, Guy. I was the only one who saw her both ways… with Robin, and with you. If she didn't love you, then she didn't love Robin, either."

"She chose him in the end."

Allan laughed, a sad, humorless chuckle. "No, Guy. She was pushed to him. By you."

Gisborne saw her face, laughing at him, and knew Allan was right. Whether she loved him or not, he couldn't have expected her to choose him over the famous Robin Hood, hero of the poor.

He gazed down at the sheriff's dead body, and remembered the blonde girl he'd protected in Lombardy. When had he changed? When had he decided that the sheriff was wrong, and that Robin Hood was right? Was it Marian's influence, or were these choices always in his mind, only awakened by her?

One thing was for certain: all those times Guy had been convinced that Robin Hood was an enigma, he hadn't realized that Marian _herself_ was the enigma.

_Everything is a choice._

Gazing up at the twilit sky, Guy of Gisborne made his choice.


End file.
